


Train of Thought

by Hopetohell



Category: Enola Holmes (2020), Enola Holmes - Fandom, Enola Holmes Series - Nancy Springer, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cock Warming, Dom Sherlock Holmes, Dom/sub Undertones, Light Bondage, Orgasm Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Semi-Public Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:28:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27400477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: Change of plans, darling. I do hope you can keep quiet.This train journey just got a bit more interesting.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Reader, Sherlock Holmes/You
Comments: 11
Kudos: 145





	1. Chapter 1

He is an anchor. An anchor, perhaps, but one of those tied to the hero’s feet in those adventure stories you read because you are drowning in this, in the vibrations that travel up from the train’s wheels to the seat to Sherlock where he is buried to the hilt inside you. 

It’s dark and the lights are out and you thank your stars for that because even with the quilt around your lower body it’s so _obvious_ what you’re up to, even if the hand over your mouth didn’t give it away, even if you weren’t sweating and clenching your hands helplessly on empty air. 

Your collar is sweat-soaked and it chills your neck, a contrast to the burning iron heat of Sherlock’s cock inside you. He barely moves at all, the bastard, just an occasional shift to remind you of how he’s buried in your cunt, of his gentle, inexorable possession of every part of you. Even the hand across your mouth is a kindness, keeping your mewls for him and him alone. He is kind, yes, but also selfish in that way. 

He is also merely human. And when you poke your tongue out to lick at his hand, to worm the point in between his fingers to lap at the webbing there, his hand tightens and a growl rumbles up from his chest. _Careful, darling. Sparks and embers._

Yes, but you _want_ to ignite him. To get _more_ because he is thick and hot and perfect and what you want is a fuck, a crude backroom animals-in-heat, ruthless, selfish, take-it-and-don’t-spill-a-drop _fuck._ To have him order you to touch your toes and hold that position while he dips his fingers into your wet cunt, to play with his come mingled with your need. But instead what he’s giving you is torture. 

And you try to rock down against him but even with just one arm around your middle he is more than a match for your attempts; it doesn’t strain him in the slightest to hold you still. And besides, like this you have so little leverage. He could, if he wanted, lift and lower you on his cock and you’d be powerless against him; he could thrust up into you with only the power in his hips and thick thighs and you’d flop back against him helplessly. And you wish he would, but he is eternally patient. And besides, it amuses him to watch you struggle with this. 

Is this vengeance? For what you did before, for the way you’d hidden under his desk and worked his cock while he talked shop with Lestrade and tried not to give the game away? For the way you’d made his breath hitch, just for a moment, for the way you’d made him clear his throat and murmur _apologies. Just a touch of hay fever?_

_This is absolutely revenge, darling_. His breath is warm over the shell of your ear and his hand slips, just a little, just enough to curl two fingers into your mouth. Just enough to press your lower jaw down so he can tilt your head back and lick into your mouth. Only once, and perhaps he’s miscalculated because it sends a shiver through your core and you ripple around him.

It’s enough to drive him up and into you with a roll of his hips like a ship on a stormy sea. _Change of plans, darling. I do hope you can keep quiet._

And _there_ he is, there’s that power you crave; he takes his hand from your mouth and with a hissed _shhhh_ he holds your hips firmly, lifting you, and as he pulls you back down he’s thrusting upward into you, and the depth he achieves like this makes you gasp. But you hold back your cries because if you make noise he might stop, and you so very desperately _do not want him to stop._ If he stops you might actually die. So you are quiet, and you let him move you over himself like a ragdoll, like a toy, and if you can’t quite get over the edge without his thumb on your pearl you’ll ride this storm of need, to feel the stretch of your walls around him until he decides you deserve to come. _If_ he decides you deserve it. 

_You don’t deserve release,_ he says like he reads your mind. _And you won’t get it._ He’s panting now, so very close, his chest lifting against you with every breath. _You’ll be good, and you will bear your need in silence until we arrive. And after that we shall see if you’ve repented._

_Fuck._ It slips out before you can bite it back, because as much as you love the way he holds you over the precipice of orgasm, what you really need is to fall, to flood him with your need and feel him spill inside. But now? You couldn’t be quiet when he asked you to, and so 

he

stops. 

He lifts you up and off him carefully and tucks himself away. It’s a difficult matter with the way he strains at his flies, and he has to tuck himself up into the waistband of his trousers. He grits his teeth and watches you struggle to right your clothing. It’s hours yet until your stop and he will seethe with the effect of your disobedience, with the loss of the feeling of you warm and wet around him. 

_Truly, I thought I’d taught you better,_ he says when he has control of his voice again. Pale predawn light filters into the compartment and shows his face drawn tight, the way his hand wrinkles the fabric of his trousers as he grips at his thigh. _And so you must suffer for now, and I must suffer with you. A pity._ He shakes open his newspaper and lowers his eyes to the page, and ignores the way you shift in your seat. And the whole rest of the way he doesn’t say a thing, except for once, when you sneak a hand between your legs, hopeful he won’t notice. 

He notices. 

_Darling. For that I will tie you to the bedpost and I will leave you there. And I will use you, and leave you, and use you again until you scream with frustration. And you will not come, not once, or else we’ll start again._

And he returns to his newspaper, ignoring the way you squirm, the way you glare, the way you suffer. And _oh,_ how you look forward to his punishment.


	2. Clover and Impatiens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He _did_ promise a punishment.

He wasn’t bluffing. 

Sherlock pages through yesterday’s newspaper but you know his mind is elsewhere because when you glance at him, he lets you catch him looking. The closer you get to your destination, the longer his gaze lingers. And when you disembark he helps you from your seat like a proper gentleman, only his hand lingers just a little long brushing the travel dust from your clothes. He pauses, thumb pressing and circling your nipple until it pebbles, until he can feel it through your clothes. And he _hmmms_ softly, carrying your case for you. Perfect gentleman, perfectly composed. It lasts exactly as long as it takes to get from the station to your lodgings. 

And there’s Sherlock with a hand heavy on the nape of your neck, marching you through the door. There he is opening his case and removing a set of tooled leather cuffs, motif of clover and impatiens ( _submission and ardent love, darling, isn’t that right?_ ), heavy fittings gleaming in the sunlight streaming through the window. 

_Strip._ His voice is so, so quiet— measured and absolutely devastating. He could order you off a cliff with that tone and you’d thank him as you pitched yourself over the edge. So you strip, and you fold your things ( _neatly, dearest, have a care_ ), and you wait. Hands loosely clasped behind, feet apart, waiting for—

 _Bend over. Show me your cunt._ His hand is nearly on you, its warmth tantalizingly just above your skin, but he won’t touch. _Spread your folds. I want to see inside you._ His breath catches in time to the weak fluttering between your legs as warm aching need begins to pulse through you. And when he says _make yourself ready for me_ it’s with longing, the unspoken desire to have his hands on you, but this is a punishment and he must stand fast. 

His eyes are fixed on you as you shift your legs wider, as you try to hold yourself spread open and ready yourself for his cock at the same time. But you manage, thumb on one side of your slit and fingers on the other, other hand passing between clit and cunt with a wet slip-slide through the need that begins to pearl over your hand. It’s awkward and he knows it, and he doesn’t care. This is Sherlock punishing you with the absence of his touch, with the feel of being known, of having all of yourself dragged into the light. This is Sherlock asking _are you ready_ and waiting on an honest answer. This is him passing your cuffs through a gap in the scrollwork of the iron headboard; this is him saying _stand there and don’t move. Don’t speak._

But— 

_Please. Sir. I can’t be quiet. Please, would you gag me?_

And yes, of course, he’s already pressing the gag between your lips, smooth leather cool on your skin, and he murmurs _very good, darling. Never be afraid to ask for help. Even now, even when you must suffer for me, I only want to help you. And now, take your punishment._

His thick cock nudging between your folds isn’t a surprise but it still pulls a gasp from you, and a frustrated whine when you realize he’s not going to touch you, not any more than he needs to seat himself fully inside you. His hand comes to rest beside yours where they dangle and flop in their cuffs, where you must stretch to bend toward the headboard and still keep your feet on the floor. If he wanted he could pick you up and rotate you onto the bed, still take you from behind like a beast but at least it would be in comfort. 

But instead he stands and takes you like a _thing,_ like something to milk his cock dry and be left out for later use. He rocks up into you, forcing you onto your toes, moving you with him to keep himself buried deep. It aches and it’s too deep too much and he isn’t quick; he takes his pleasure, but when he finishes— quietly, with a gentle _ah—_ he turns you over and settles you on the bed because he is not unkind. 

And he removes the gag, spit-shiny and stringed with drool; he dampens a cloth and cleans his seed from between your legs. He speaks and it filters through your hazy frustrated arousal. _You are taking me so well, but this isn’t over. I am not yet satisfied. Now I have work to do, and you will wait for me in silence, and when I return I will take my time with you_. 

He smiles, and he leaves you there, naked and aching, your hands clenching in their cuffs. There is nothing left to you except to wait.


	3. And Afterward, a Lesson

There are two kinds of tiredness at war within your flesh. One is the tiredness of travel: the carriage dust that seems to settle in your bones, the rattling vibration of train cars and cart wheels, the shouting of workmen in the streets. The other is the tiredness of need: the hot and pulsing ache between your wet thighs, and the frustration that it brings. Because you cannot find relief; still Sherlock has you cuffed to the bed, and still his punishment continues. 

It is a torture, yes, but a sweet one: part of the game, to use his turn of phrase. To seek your pleasure when he ordered stillness: this is your infraction, and he must make you understand. 

_I know, darling. It frustrates you so terribly. But it frustrates me as well that you did not obey, and now, regrettably, I must punish you._

Regrettably? The way his cock slipped slick and hard between your folds, it’s hard to imagine there was anything regrettable about it. You felt the pulsing hardness of him and could nearly count the veins on his cock, standing out in sharp relief against his finest of flesh. But he loves to touch; he craves it, and so perhaps he feels regret after all. Because he’s hardly touched you since arriving at this place. He bound you to the headboard with those leather cuffs of his, and spread you open with his thick hot hands, but after that. After that, he gave you nothing, only the feel of his cock heavy in you, and the seed he left when he pulsed into your cunt. 

And now. 

Sherlock hears your whine from where he writes at his desk; he copies figures from anatomy texts, and if you peer over your shoulder you can almost read his notes: marked-out pleasure centers, places where the nerves ride close to the surface. Places where a pretty bit of metal might be placed to increase sensation. 

_Ah, my darling, are you peeking? Would you ruin your surprise? No, no, don’t fret. It’s only thoughts and maybes._

_I— is that what I think it is? On my—_

_Yes, my darling. Oh, I see. You’re interested. Now, sweet. Turn the thought over in your mind. Sit with the idea for a while. It’s a serious decision. Remember how long it took to heal my rings? Besides. We are not finished here. You’ve paid your penance, and now I wish to impart a lesson._  
  
And Sherlock stands to free your cuffs; he clasps your wrists behind you and guides you to the mirror; here your form is fully visible, still naked, held against his thick, unyielding form. Behind your back his hand creeps down your spine; for a moment his fingers tangle in yours and there’s that murmur in your ear, low and sweet. 

_Darling. What do you see?_

_It’s you and me._

_Is that all? Look closer. Can you see your strength? Your fire? How beautifully you bore your punishment, darling. When I bent you down and used you, I saw the way you opened up to let me in. You trusted me to take the price of disobedience from your flesh, trusted me to guide you through your penance. You grant me your flesh and your spirit, sweet, and I cannot fathom anything more intimate: that you would choose to allow this from me, that you would continue to follow my hand._

These pretty words of his are true and beautiful; all of this is because you have allowed it, not once in some distant past encounter, but with every touch and every breath. He is your guide, yes, and he holds you within his dominion, but he is ever and always your servant. And now he sees your mind is wandering; he pulls you back to him with a hand warm at the curve of your hip, fingers stroking gently at your flesh to make the muscles jump beneath his hand. 

_Your mind is elsewhere, sweet. Where have you gone?_

_I was thinking, sir. About this. About us, and what you said._

_And what have you concluded?_

_I don’t know if I feel so strong at all. I didn’t listen. Couldn’t obey._

_And when you disobeyed, what then? How did you feel?_ His hands are moving on you now, one cupping the curve of your breast, the other slipping lower, to your center. And your body remembers; your feet shift as you lean against his chest, as your bound hands fist into his waistcoat. And like this you can see everything: every twitch of muscle, every sigh, and the way his reflection’s eyes fix on yours, heavy and commanding. 

_I was— disappointed. I felt that I had let you down. And there was a thrill of disobedience, of naughtiness. The anticipation of how you might respond. I wanted to please you, but I also liked that I made you react, that I’d frayed your control._

_And now?_

_I feel safe, I suppose. Because I trust you to take care of me. But I still want you so desperately; will you let me? Can I come for you now?_

And Sherlock smiles and gives his _yes;_ he gives you his fingers, thick and searching. He finds you slick and aching for him, cunt warm and wet and _god above, you’re gorgeous. Keep your eyes on the mirror, darling. I want you to see yourself fall apart. See what I see_. And though you can feel him hard and hot against your back, can brush him with the very tips of your fingers, he does not move to free himself. Fully dressed and straining in his suit, Sherlock curls his fingers into you and finds a pace that makes you writhe; his eyes in the mirror are swallowed black by their pupils. 

And that other hand of his drifts upward from your breast; he cups your chin and turns your head to keep your eyes on him and most of all on you, on the tensing of your thighs and belly, on the openmouthed panting want on your face. _Look, darling. Look at all your fire brought to the surface. I can feel how close you are already, how you clench around my hand. How you must have suffered, bound to the bed, waiting for me to take my pleasure. How strong you are for me, that you have borne all this._

And Sherlock twists his fingers as he dips his head; he whispers a secret in your ear that has you gasping; he times it to the motion of his hand and the rippling of your walls around his fingers as you come.

_Darling. Love. How you shine._


End file.
